So how we're going to begin is you're going to sit comfortably,
However that means to you.
It could be legs crossed,
Could be sitting in a chair,
Whatever it is,
Sit somewhere comfortably that you feel relaxed and comfortable.
And you're going to close your eyes and you're going to take three deep breaths.
Deep breath in,
Count to four,
Deep breath out,
Count to four.
And each time you exhale,
You're going to try and relax your body a little bit further.
So you're going to inhale,
Pause,
Exhale,
Pause.
So as you're doing this and you're relaxing,
It's in those pauses between breaths where we're going to go.
That is where your creativity meets your imagination,
Meets your subconscious.
So let's see what awaits you in the spaces between breaths.
Your eyes open,
But this time not with the excitement and curiosity of truth seeking or adventure.
Instead,
They are the heavy dulled eyes of something dead,
But you're not,
You're alive.
And yet you lay on moving,
Letting your memories play through,
Overcoming fear,
Elation of reaching the summit,
The intense stare of the eagle,
The heat and death of the dragon.
You fought so hard and then the fall,
Cast down again,
Eventually curiosity wins out over lethargy and you roll over.
This is the swamp again.
In fact,
It's the exact same spot you were before.
Sure enough,
The tracks of the crocodile lead to and from your spot.
Thanks,
You mutter with a nod to the swamp,
But you were met with only silence.
Up until now,
You have avoided looking at your leg,
But you have to stand up eventually.
With a breath,
You turn over and push up onto all fours.
Sure enough,
Your leg screams in pain,
But not the leg you were expecting.
The other leg.
This might normally be met with expletives and anger,
But you have nothing.
Inside you find no rage,
No frustration,
No sadness,
Just the empty silence of hopelessness.
Instinctually,
You know this is wrong,
But you're also lost as to what to do about it.
So you stand up.
It hurts,
But the pain is dulled.
There has been some healing.
The other leg,
Though,
It is useless.
With a grimace,
You limp hop a few steps before falling,
But still there is nothing.
You can't even cry.
Your soul wails and you want to scream and cry,
But there is simply emptiness and silence.
The universe does not care.
At some point you fall asleep,
Although you're not even sure when,
But when you awake,
You don't feel rested.
Exhaustion weighs on your body and you simply succumb.
In between fits of wakefulness and sullen numbness,
You sleep.
How much time passes?
It is hard to say.
Days.
Nights.
Even hunger is not enough to move you.
Eventually,
It is simply boredom that motivates you to try again.
This time,
You're ready for what's coming.
Your muscles are weakened.
You need food.
Robotically,
You grab a branch that is about the right size and strip the smaller twigs from it.
There.
A walking stick.
And so you swallow your pride and you lean on the walking stick.
You never admit it,
But it works really nicely.
The way is familiar.
After all,
It was not long ago you walked it.
Still,
Your soul feels numb.
Where once there was fire and passion,
Now there is a void,
Like a tap has been turned off.
On and on you walk,
Pausing to rest.
One foot in front of the other is painstaking.
You almost wish you could cry,
But you can't really bring yourself to care.
You are aware that something is wrong.
It's like a vague itch in the back of your mind,
But it's not loud enough to really draw your attention.
And so you walk.
At some point,
Thunder starts you out of your waking dreams.
Looking up,
You realize a storm has rolled in.
Luckily,
You are near the edge of the swamp and don't have to worry about flooding.
Still,
The sky grows dark and ominous.
There is a static in the air.
It's like the wick of a lighter that is struck again and again without lighting.
Your senses are attuned to this,
And suddenly you find yourself hyper-focused.
This is why,
When the rain comes,
It's a rush of sensation.
It pours down on you,
And as you stare up into the dark eye of the storm,
There is a cleansing of sorts.
Something stirs within you,
Perhaps not gone,
Just wounded.
As if on cue,
There is a flash,
And lightning strikes the dead tree directly in front of you.
It is so sudden and violent that you stagger back.
The light is so intense that once you uncover your eyes,
You stand transfixed as the fire starts.
The tree burns so hot that the rain steams when it hits it.
It is a beautiful melody of water,
Fire,
Earth,
And air.
And there,
With the eye of the storm raging overhead,
And the fire blazing with hissing steam rolling off in waves,
That you catch sight of your reflection in a puddle on the ground.
Your reflection is colored red with the glow of the fire,
But you see yourself.
It is not the broken wretch that crawled out of the swamp,
But the burning flame of the dragon that stares back at you.
The fire has been lit.
Like the tree,
Steam now rises from your body as the rain pours down.
A warmth fills your senses,
And every hair on your arm and neck stands up.
For the first time since the fall,
You feel alive.
You and the tree burn through the night as the storm slowly fades away.
Perhaps the universe does care.
In the morning,
You awaken next to the smoldering ash of the tree.
The ground is soaked so the fire did not spread.
Today,
The colors seem brighter.
Rather than rolling over and grimacing,
You pull yourself up in one fluid motion.
Movement will heal the body,
And so you grab your stick and set on down the path.
And so it was that you crossed the forest,
Climbed the cliff,
And returned back to the giant rock mountain.
What adventures you encountered along the way are perhaps a story for another day.
But the wolf and eagle were nowhere to be found.
Perhaps because you no longer need them.
The physical struggle hardened your body and prepared your mind for the mental struggle over fear.
This in turn gave you the will to face the darkest struggle of them all.
The emotional devastation of hopelessness.
Yet somehow you returned more powerful than anyone could have imagined.
And so you find yourself within the cave,
Staring up the base of the steps where you traveled once before.
The fear of uncertainty once again rears its head,
But this is nothing compared to the fear of the cliff.
You hesitate only a moment before ascending.
There is pain,
But it is nothing compared to the pain of hopelessness.
And so your walking stick is more than adequate.
At the top he sits,
The man with the white eyes.
He is sprawled on his throne like a lazy king.
He says nothing and so you stare at each other,
Unmoving.
Neither offering the other a hint or giving an inch of leeway.
Finally he smiles,
And after a moment you bow your head respectfully.
And then he is in front of you grasping your shoulders.
His intensity rolls off him in waves.
Is that a hint of excitement?
Maybe even pride?
You raise your eyes to meet his,
And this time you truly see.
The heat of pain and death fills your senses.
The dragon rears in front of you,
Its eyes fixated on the faceless warrior.
White hot flame bursts from its mouth as the warrior hides behind their shield,
One knee and one hand on the ground.
But this time it's different.
The heat and stench of the dragon roll off you.
But you've felt pain before.
This is nothing new.
New details show themselves as your senses calm.
The color of the rocks.
The reflection of the pool.
If you look closely you see the eyes of the crocodile peering out.
You are able to wrestle your fear aside and truly see.
Once more you see through the eyes of the crocodile.
You are behind and to the side of the dragon.
The flames are still hot even from here,
But now you see.
The tracks of the dragon wind wide,
Far from the water.
Abnormally wide.
In fact a dragon has gone out of its way to avoid the water.
And then you know.
The dragon is afraid of the water.
Then you are in the air,
And you see from above.
Once again the ripples of heat distort the air,
But this time you see the tracks.
The dragon is not the all terrible demon you thought.
If it fears,
It can be killed.
And there amidst the glistening black scales there is a dull spot.
Sure enough,
A scale is missing.
The dragon is vulnerable.
And then back in your own eyes you see the warrior behind the shield,
And you accept the emotional cost of failure.
Not despair,
But hope.
And then you know.
Near the warrior's hand there is the briefest of glimmers.
They have a sword.
The warrior is not being forced to the ground.
The warrior is standing up.
Now you see the eyes of the dragon are afraid.
It is not the death of the warrior you are witnessing.
It is the death of the dragon.
That is the thing about hope.
It is not a prayer or a wish.
It is the certainty of victory despite all evidence to the contrary.
And the realization that the struggle is part of becoming who you need to be in the end.
With that realization,
Reality begins to crackle around you.
Like puzzle pieces coming undone,
Cracks of white light appear throughout the vision.
Soon this light washes away the darkness and the heat.
You find yourself standing in a circle of giant stones.
They reach for the heavens like pillars of creation.
There are 13 pillars,
Each intricately engraved with various animals and runes,
With grooves running to a centered eyes.
Behold the sacred row,
A voice whispers in your ear,
As a small shape descends from the heavens.
The man with the white eyes is gone.
It is an eerie silence and the glow of the cave shines eerily on the throne.
There scrawled as if with a knife,
Veritas vos liberabit,
The truth shall set you free.
You slowly hold up your hand.
It is gripped in a tight fist around something,
A box.
It is intricately carved and made of some unknown metal.
There are grooves etched in all six sides,
But there does not seem to be any seam or clue to what lays inside.
As you turn it over,
You realize it is not quite a symmetrical cube.
One side is longer than the other,
Making an angled top.
As you hold it up to the light,
The silhouette glowing eerily in the darkness,
A wind suddenly blows within the darkness.
And with it a whisper so soft,
You can't be sure you imagined it.
